Fiftyleven Colours Relating to Dusk
by Apeygirl
Summary: A chapter by chapter parodying this masterpiece on several levels. Meet ADORABLY clumsy cipher Vagina Ironclad as she meets Lutheran Dusk, the enigmatic TRILLIONAIRE Overlord of Dusk, Incorporated. You probably shouldn't read this.
1. Chapter 1

**Fiftyleven Colours Relating To Dusk... OF THE UNIVERSE**

**About the author:**

A.M. Walsh is a TV viewer, mother of four precocious, but imaginary children, based in Southern California. Since she was in diapers, she envisioned rising to fame by co-opting a fan base built by someone else's work, but put those glorious imaginings away to cultivate a working relationship with ethics. Ten seconds ago, she finally put on her big girl panties, and wrote this masterpiece.

A.M. Walsh is currently working on milking this teat until it is a dry husk of its former self. And a novel about PUPPIES with a sexy twist.

**For Tobes**

_The Bitch Who Made Me Write This_

**Acknowledgments:**

I'd like to thank E. L. "James" for inventing porn and BDSM and teaching the lower beings what truly great writing is.

**Author's note:**

All editing efforts were harshly rebuked because my spelling and punctuation errors are creative!

I had such fun writing about Florida! Someday, I'm going to go there and see if it's as snowy as they say!

**Chapter One**

I snarl and hiss, ripping out chunks of my glimmering hair, staring in wild rage at my gigantic sparkling eyes and flawless skin. Why am I cursed with beauty, only adorably offset by my terribly endearing occasional tendency to stumble and end the life of innocent bystanders?

If only I could murder Blonde instead. Blonde Breastigan is my live-in life partner, who I am definitely not sapphically drawn to, but who I like to verbally caress in loving, graphic detail at every opportunity. She's on a ventilator and it makes me stomp my dainty feet with adorable rage at her deathwatch that now I have to take her place, painfully schmoozing with the extravagantly rich trillionaire Overlord of Dusk, Incorporated instead of studying for my Doctoral Degree in Girlish studies and Book-Knowing.

Blonde wheezes faintly from a pile of soiled newspapers in the corner. "Vag, I'm so totally sorry. I'm just, like, college newspapers are super demanding and stuff. If I perish, please," she chokes, "please remember me." She hands me an eight-track recorder and several cartridges as I gaze into her breathtakingly gorgeous orbs of forest green, set in a pale face glistening with dew and small flecks of delicate mucus. Why is she so resplendent?

I punch her lovingly in the throat and she falls with gazelle-like floatiness back to her pile of filth. "Only because of my abiding and completely platonic adoration for you, do I suffer meeting the richest man in Snowy Florida."

Gathering my rucksack and snowshoes, I set out for the icy tundra of this state I know so well, rhapsodizing absently on how Blonde and I could survive this frozen wasteland with no more than a sleeping bag and our body heat. Oh, the windy rapture! I am using Blonde's deluxe Sno-Cat instead of my tired, half-starved sled dogs, though my whip does still hang from my rucksack as I speed to Mr. Dusk's distant Miami fortress.

It's all stone and flaming torches, the light clanking of chains and faint screams from within darkly exciting to my pure, virgin ears. As I approach the enormous, creaking drawbridge, a rake-thin woman, arms shackled to a post greets me. "How can I serve you?" she croaks with a jaunty rattle of her facial piercings.

"My name is Vagina Ironclad. I'll be interviewing Mr. Lutheran Dusk for Blonde Breastigan's very important college newspaper article that he would be so angry to reschedule as I'm sure he's been looking forward to it all day with absolutely nothing better to do."

"Yes. The Master is expecting you." She jerked her head to the side with a pained mew.

As I cross the drawbridge, the plaintive screams from within growing louder, another emaciated shadow greets me. I glance at her leather corset and fishnet body suit, riddled with cigar burns and patches of oozing skin. To think all I wore was my Aspiring Book-Knower souvenir hoodie! These city folk! So glamorous!

She gets on all fours and gestures for me to sit. I do, idly riding on her back as she crawls up several flights of glass strewn steps to the inner keep, cursing that my book-knowing and enigmatic aura of mysteriousness means I just don't fit in anywhere!

She stops with an exhausted grunt and I thank her as another gaunt spectre greets me, this one blindfolded, groping her way to my cursed shining waterfall of hair. "Mistress," she whispers. "Please wait here."

She blindly prods me to the edge of the tall tower and I clutch my virginity at the vast view of Florida now before me. The snowy mountains and colorful canyons giving way to the Empire State Building in the distance. Jeepers!

I pull off my rucksack and grope inside, trying to find Blonde's eight-track recorder among my many classic novels from literature, my abacus, and my adorable pet sidekicks! **Mystical Empress**, a winsome and frolicky pink beaver that loves to indulge in adorable mimicry and an extremely loud and grumbly tea cup pig that I call **Innermost Self**. Oh, the adventures we have!

I sigh, realizing this day won't be an adventure and slap them into silence, what with me being forced to interact with humans other than my dearest, darlingest Blonde. I think of all my 22 years up till now, staring through the gates of the anti-technology senior living community I called home. How could I do this? Actually talk! Wow, Jeepers, and Criminy!

Another pockmarked wraith approaches and I punch myself in the face, thinking Lutheran Dusk will surely be expecting someone urbane and sophisticated like these women... like he... must be... Woe! I punch myself a few more times when an ornate, bejeweled, golden door opens.

A small, ginger haired man, all in green with a jaunty cap steps out, clutching a nearly empty flask. Oh, deary me! He's as mysterious and intimidating as I thought!

But the man turns back in. "Ah, faith and begorra, me fine sir Dusk! Would ye be wantin' a game of horseshoes this Saturday eve?"

I decide I don't care about Dusk's answer as I'd much rather stare in self-hating envy at the wraiths that are marching in with a canopied sedan chair to escort him out as he winks and makes kissing noises in my general direction.

"The Master will see you now," Wraith Number Two whimpers, picking tiny bits of glass from her hands. I snarl lightly at her and pick up my rucksack, then stumble to the door on my preciously clumsy feet, elbowing her in the chest and right over the edge of the tower. Drat! Not only have I innocently snuffed out a life... again... I'm now prostrate on the floor, nose to a sinfully, decadently, well-polished shoe.

"Yes. That's just how I like them."

I give two quick jabs to my eye before I feel worthy enough to look up. Jiminy Cricket - he's young!

"Miss Breastigan," he drawls in a long drawling drawl as I pick my pathetic self up. "I'm Lutheran Dusk. Would you care to have a seat?" He gestures with impossibly long fingers, so long, they brush against the walls as he extends them, to a metal bench with tiny spikes all along the edges.

He's so much younger than I ever dreamed in my dreamiest dreams, like somewhere between fourteen and forty-six, and he is the most hot, handsome, hunky, heavenly, delectable, delicious, super dishy man I ever did see! I wanted to throw myself off the tower! I settle for adorably tripping backward into the hollowed eyed spectre from the gate, sending her careening over the edge. He's tall, ducking slightly to avoid the ceiling as I follow him into his deep, secret world, dressed in a shiny black suit of pleather that zips up to his neck. I let out several whistles and a thin line of drool before I'm able to speak.

"Hedddhhhh aajjlks," I try as he shakes my hand, his long fingers wrapping three times around it as I dissolve into mad giggles for just a moment before I collect myself. "Miss Breastigan is on deathwatch. I am her independent, feminist, cripplingly shy shut-in friend."

"And they call you?" He looks confused, amused, and apathetic all at once. Oh, the mystery of him!

"Vagina Ironclad. I take Girlish Studies and Book-Knowing with my sugar lum... er... um... with Blonde at Daytona Mountain University."

"Well, well," he drawls smirkingly, templing his long fingers under his chin. "Have a seat?" He gestures again to the spike-studded bench, but pouts as I opt for a butter soft leather chair so buttery I sink halfway into it with a decadent splat as I stare around his quarters. Dark and damp and so cavernous, every noise seems to echo - especially my pounding heart! With a long desk that could fit my entire team of sled dogs. The Mona Lisa, Whistler's Mother, and other assorted masterpieces are scattered... around the room.

"Dogs Playing Poker," I mumble knowingly, spying a favorite. "The green table is green like money," I murmur with ponderous ennui. "And dogs don't even need money. Irony."

"You are unexpectedly wise, Miss Ironclad," he whispers with his breath as I giggle wildly.

The rest of his quarters are covered in spiked implements, coils of rope, thin, sharp-edged straps of leather and a large iron maiden that must be incredibly valuable. I decide he's just like me. He loves the classical things! I pull out my eight-track and knock over several vases as he smirks and chuckles with haunting, intent eyes that haunt me with their intensity.

"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Oopsie. Darn!" I stammer as his eyes dance like broken demons only I can heal with my bland innocence. "News," I murmur thoughtfully.

"Yes. Important."

I pull out Blonde's list, spattered so beautifully with specks of blood from her coughing fits. "Question?"

"Answer."

"Probing journalism?"

"Business. Industry. Power. Riding crops."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." He smiles with the warmth of a sunny place in the tropics - Seattle, maybe. I find myself grinning back. We laugh for some reason, obviously simpatico.

"How such... power?" I inquire probingly.

"I have a calculated system of punishment and reward that I inflict on my underlings without boundaries or mercy. Also money appears. Because." His eyes turn cold, cold like ice or a sno-cone if they made gray flavored ones. "You cannot begin to comprehend my control!" he growls.

My stomach begins roiling with hot stabs of heat as I wonder how this man sneering, glaring, and growling at me would have any effect on me whatsoever. Baffling!

"Without me, the entire state of Florida would perish and its people would suffer icy death."

I decide I am angry! "YOU just want to CONTROL everything!"

His eyes narrow and his hand hovers over a red button on his desk. "No, not yet," he whispers with the dark promise of a Gothic castle on a stormy moor in North Dakota. "Miss Ironclad, I am the sole Overlord of all this land, the ice fishing industry alone depends on my largesse and the peasants' lean-tos would collapse and crush their bones should I ever stop doing whatever it is I do."

I drop my anger because I am not only a wildly temperamental independent woman, but a sophisticated smarty pants who knows I simply must get this super important college newspaper interview done for my beloved Blonde. No matter how this smirkingly rich, darkly attractive man antagonizing me inexplicably affects me!

"Yeah. Far out," I try, deciding to impress him with the bitchin slang I sometimes heard from the outside world while lounging near the fence of my senior living community that cut me off from technology and popular entertainment and fashion. "So how do you chill out or hang or something. Dig?"

"Chill? Hang? Dig?" He is confoundingly amused by how modern I am, being pretty much my age. I internally drool again about how dreamy he is, like every issue of_ Tiger Beat _spawned a living being or whatever. "Well, to chill, like you whippersnappers say, I do daring, adventurous, expensive things - like sailing and flying - things you could only dream of!"

I decide I'm uncomfortable and focus on Blonde's list again. "You invest in things that get built," I say, so very specifically. "Why?"

"I played with blocks as a child."

"I feel your heart in that answer," I sigh.

He smirks beautifully some more. "You cannot begin to know me. I am private and too deep for anyone to possibly understand. I shouldn't be answering your surprisingly insightful questions, damn your bland innocence and biting wit!"

Angry again! "Then why is this scene even happening?"

"Because Miss Breastigan wouldn't quit bothering me and my minions."

I sigh, my anger floating away as I think of Blonde and how persistent and brilliant and voluptuous she is. "You do food business things, too? Why?"

"Because people are starving. I may be able to feed an entire country for a year. But why do that when I can profit off people who actually do things?"

"That's so totally generous, how you almost do stuff," I murmur, staring at a pile of money burning with a warm glow in the fireplace. "What is the clichéd saying that guides your life?"

" Hitler once said 'By the skillful and sustained use of propaganda, one can make a people see even heaven as hell or an extremely wretched life as paradise.' For example, the most terrible book ever written can become the most popular... if only enough people browbeat the world into reading it. Anyway, I plan to take control of all these peasants because I am entitled to."

The money burning in the fireplace crackles with sexy menace as we gaze at each other. I am so arousedly fearful of this paragon! But I must finish this for the sake of my cherished Blonde. I glance at her list again. "As all adopted people are different from us, how does it make you in particular a freak?"

"I don't know."

How interesting he is! "At what age were you taken in by loving parents?" Oh, dear! I hope this question isn't somehow offensive!

"Look it up!" He says angrily, offended as I feared!

Of course, I would have taken two seconds to ask Blonde something about her questions if I'd known he'd be so dreamy.

"You're too busy to have kids or a wife or anything."

"How dare you make a statement instead of a question!"

"Oh. I mean... Are you too busy to have kids or a wife or anything?"

"Don't need or want them. I have a mommy and daddy and a bubby and sissie and that's all I need! So don't you get any ideas about healing my soul and changing my mind."

No! Never! "Do you like boys, Mr. Dusk?" I punch myself lightly in the teeth for not having even looked at these questions. Darn my winsomely mischievous Blonde!

"No, Vagina," he says with cool, heated anger.

"I'm sorry. These are all Blonde's fault." He said my name. He actually said it. I decide to muster up the first of many blushes and giggle and toy with my hair.

"So you didn't even prepare a little for this extremely important interview with..." He gestured down his tall, pleather-encased body with his foot-long fingers. "Well, me?"

I stammer and blush even more if possible. "I don't even work on the paper. Blonde's just my life-partner."

A knock on the door heralds in Wraith Number Three, staggering in with her blindfold. "Master Dusk, please look kindly on my interruption..."

"Silence, Gladys!" he barks. "I am not finished with this one. Whatever it is can wait."

She cowers, whimpering as she backs through the doorway.

"Proceed, Miss Ironclad."

I find myself mourning for five seconds ago, when he caressed my first name. _Vagina_. "But aren't you an all-powerful overlord with better things to do?"

"I've decided that you're utterly fascinating. For some reason. Tell me everything."

I flush, of course. It's what I do. "I'm horribly boring."

"Yes, go on," he said, his eyes gleaming with abject fascination.

"I'd like to think that my lack of personal traits helps everyone decide I'm just like them."

"Intriguing."

"I have no plans for the future or dreams."

"With that kind of gumption, I simply must hire you to work under me," he murmurs, licking his lips several times.

"I am unworthy."

"Yes. That's just what I like about you."

I wrench my gaze away from his dark intensity and clutch my virginity with both hands. "I must go!"

"Very well, then. Fare thee well, Miss Ironclad. I shall most likely stalk you later."

Surely, he wouldn't. Every man who's ever met me has, but, as I said, I am cripplingly shy and unworthy of breathing. I gather my rucksack. "Goodbye, Mr. Dusk."

He pulls open the bejeweled door. "Please try not to kill any more of my underlings."

I think of pulling out my Mystical Empress to glower at him for pointing out my endearing klutziness, but I just got ready to go. "I won't. Thank you," I say instead with precocious snappiness.

He follows me out and I am blandly mystified when he gently inserts a beeping, red microchip just under my jaw line. "Mind the snow drifts."

Four new gaunt specters are waiting to escort me out, but he waves them away with his impossibly long fingers and places a strong hand on my buttocks as he escorts me out himself with cool, burning eyes.

I scurry down the steps and toward the outer keep of his fortress, staring at him in awkward, girlish worship as we move to the drawbridge.

"Vagina," he gasps, shoving me at the drawbridge.

"Lutheran," I pant, then hurry away in mortification! I said his NAME!


	2. Chapter 2

_Yes. Every time (__ Bella Swann__Anastasia Steele)__ Vagina Ironclad is adorably klutzy (JUST LIKE YOU!), someone will DIE!  
_

_Thanks, __**Trudes193**__ for the follow :) _

**Chapter Two**

My chronic cardiac arrhythmia acts up as I scurry across the drawbridge, stumbling and knocking a man in leather hotpants and his large pile of expense reports into the piranha-filled moat. I blithely speed on until I toss myself into one of Florida's famously comforting snowdrifts. I roll around, trying to calm the flip down. Oh, the confusion! That a famous, wealthy and handsome man should make me feel more than the apathy and mild disdain that usually fills my days!

As Blonde's Sno-Kat leaves his fortress in the distance, I decide to punch myself in the face some more because I didn't do enough of that in the last few hours. There's just no way in fiftyleven hecks he's attracted to lil' ol' me. Good heavens! I could probably find enough adjectives for rich, handsome, powerful to do him justice. But I won't because that would take forever for anyone to read. But I should also add how gosh darned polite and wonderful and every good thing he is! I have decided this even though he spent the entire interview glaring, sneering, and snapping at me. Shivers!

I mentally berate Blonde some more and decide to give her a thorough tongue lashing as soon as I'm home. My mind drifts on that image for a second, also to gentle hands inserting tracking devices and eyes that were freezing hot.

Blonde and I live in a luxurious tenement right next to Daytona Mountain University that Blonde's parents own, so different from the anti-technology senior living community I lived in all my life. Sometimes I am grateful to Blonde for freeing me from the hive mind, though I still absolutely refuse to have an "electronic mail" address. But that and the fact that she doesn't charge me much rent, and that I might want to have topless slumber parties with her, is probably why I haven't stumble-killed Blonde yet.

I creep in and try to toss the eight-track at Blonde, but she shoves me into a chair and trains a bright light on my eyes in her adorably inquisitive way. "Tell me everything!"

"It was horrible! I killed three of his underlings! I hated it! I hate him except for how I totally don't! He's young, handsome, focused, handsome, scary, and young. Also, he's young." I slap her lightly across the jaw. "Why didn't you get off your ventilator and IV drip for two seconds to tell me all about him?"

"Jiminy Crickets, Vag, I'm sorry," she whimpers.

Of course I can't stay mad at Blonde, because of lust. "Anyway, he's really mature and polite and wonderful. I could tell by how he only smirked and glared at me a little as compared to most people. I detest him! But he's really successful for a man between fourteen and forty-six."

"He's twenty-seven."

"Oh." I sigh and try to decide between fantasizing about Dusk and fantasizing about Blonde, looking very fetching in her footie pajamas. But I have to go to work. So I shove Blonde to the floor, stomp on her just twice, and off to work at Gropehammer's Bait and Tackle!

I've worked there through my years at Daytona Mountain University. I work there ironically because I hate fishing and it's the largest bait and tackle shack in the world. I disdain fishing as I'm a drink-tea-and-read-books-and-those-are-my-only-personal-traits kinda gal! But I toss Mrs. Gropehammer a greeting, anyway, when she briefly kisses my feet, then I work bagging night crawlers for thirty seconds, then go home. Work is so hard!

Blonde is doing things on a... compuder, I think they call them. She must be listening to the interview on her... headphones. "You are the most talented and insightful first-time reporter ever, Vag. But why didn't you let Dusk show you the fortress? I hear the dungeons are to die for! I think he liked you!"

Poppycock! And he probably lojacks everyone! I chew my lip bloody, but say nothing.

"He's one fine-assed looking cuss!"

There is excess blood flow to my face. "I never notice how people look because I'm above such things, as you know," I murmur loudly as I go to the kitchen, not to eat. I'm morally opposed to eating. Just to get away.

But Blonde's delicious inquisitiveness never ends and she follows me, making ridiculous assertions that either me or Lutheran Dusk are attracted to the other. Criminy! I slap her twice more across the face for making me ask if he was gay. She tells me it's because he never dates and I imagine the woman who finally gets him to will be the most beautiful, wonderful, fascinating woman on earth. And definitely not me because I'm just so humble.

I shove a sandwich into Blonde's open mouth to stop her talking and sit down to write my essay on _Green Eggs and Ham_. Boy howdy, was that Sam-I-am pushy! I write and scribble and think with smartness until bed time, where I dream of faint screams, damp stone, and black pleather.

That week, I study and work hard, but I won't tell you about either of those things because money and goals are terribly unimportant things. Sometimes I punch Blonde for still being sick and give her ventilator a fond kick.

I call Mom - that is her only name - to berate her for starting a home business. Why does she do things? I do nothing but know books and drink tea, so I've long decided I'm superior. Then I sweetly mock her for being a thrice-married skank and hope her new husband, Block, is keeping her adorable stupidity in line.

I also call Hick, the second guy my slatternly mother married - because I apparently don't want to share any details about my biological father and picked this one as Daddy. I like the way he never talks, just breathes at me comfortingly over the phone.

By Friday, Blonde and I are trying to decide what kind of hijinks to get up to. I almost get her to agree to try on bras together, but then Giotto shows up, holding a gigantic pizza.

"Giotto! It is a good thing to see you!" I say with totally natural cadence, even though he ruined my plans.

Giotto is ITALIAN. And we are totally close in every way except for how I can't stand him. And his dad and mine are best friends, even though we just met when I started at DMU - which makes our relationship completely different and original.

Giotto is studying science and everyone in Giotto's family is poor and stupid like most foreigners. He is the first to do something besides run a pizza parlor. But what he really loves is finger-painting.

"Mamma mia, I have-a da best news!" He says, his dark eyes shining with Italianness. "My paintings are gonna be on-a display, eh?"

"Jeezly crow, that's great!" I hug him, for a little longer than I want to, because he is holding on for dear life and humping my leg in his friendly way. Boys! Sometimes I think Giotto might like me as more than a friend, but I find him as repulsive as I do every man. My lady parts have always had a mild dusting of cobwebs. No men for me.

Innermost Self trots into the room, snorts out "Dusk!" I kick her away because NEVER! Giotto and Blonde give me mildly worried looks and I remember that no one but me can see my **magical cartoon sidekicks**. I join the pizza party, mostly to watch these silly food lovers eat their precious food, reflecting that Giotto must have finally given up on me screwing with his head about how we might ever be more than friends. He only humps my leg very mildly, after all.

Saturday at the tackle shack is horrifying. People come in and want to buy things. I can't imagine anything worse than people and things. I detest both! Mr. and Mrs. Gropehammer, I, and two other people who are not important, have to do things like work. When I finally get a break from all this unreasonable work, I start to eat a bagel, almost forgetting how much I loathe food, when I am stopped by a tiny beeping noise in my neck, then the inconceivable sight of Lutheran Dusk, who's come to glare at me.

_Congestive cardiac event!_

"Miss Ironclad. I most definitely didn't know this was the very place you worked."

Golly gee! How completely unforeseen! He's wearing a white sweater because that is definitely something men wear. I drool with bewilderment at his presence – and his tight, bulky sweater.

"Mr. Dusk," I pant.

"I was just passing by and decided I needed some bait. What a thoroughly unexpected surprise, Miss Ironclad," he says in a voice as warm and liquidy as a bowel movement after too much fruit.

I am having a continued cardiac event and the regulation of blood flow to the surface of my skin is unbalanced. I forget if I've mentioned he's good looking. Because he is. A lot. Just want to make sure I mention that in case I forgot. I punch myself once in the chest and my heart begins beating again, thank goodness.

"Vag," I mumble under my breath. "Just call me Vag."

Miraculously, he hears me. "I just wanted to pick up a few supplies. Do you have fishing line that can bear human weight?"

"I believe so." I lead him past the night crawlers, my legs so jellied, I careen into a man perusing rods and impale him on one because -guess what?- Dusk is handsome. I have another bout of angina as I wonder why he travelled out of his fortress. Innermost Self trots up and points at me with her snout and I kick her in the face. Poppycock!

"Are you in Daytona for work?" I shriek in girlish insanity. _Dagnabbit, Vag!_

"The Daytona Mountain food works factory is here. I was doing things to manufacture more food," he says with professional dreaminess.

"See? Not for you," Innermost Self pops up to gloat, which is weird because she was just saying the opposite.

"Is this more of your wonderfully selfless world-feeding?"

He smirks and pulls out a fifty with which to wipe his nose with. "Yeah. Sure." He gazes at our fishing line selection, inquiring if someone between one and two hundred pounds could break them, can they suspend that much weight above the ground, how long? Then he moves on to our scaling tools and tests them lightly against his arm. Then he makes me open my mouth as he holds several fish hooks to it, just to test the relative size. Golly! He must be going after some big fish! He then picks up some of our fiberglass rods and slashes them through the air, declaring one satisfactory after it, very accidentally, hits a passing Miss. Gropehammer and she shrieks in agony.

"Are you planning a fishing trip?"

He sneers in that delightful way he has. "Of course not." His fingers, which are long, in case I forgot to mention, brush mine along with half the other rods on the aisle. I feel something move, deep in my bowels, as I swoon into a dead faint.

When I wake up, he's snapping his fingers in my face "Miss Ironclad, do you have any live bait?"

I convulse like someone electrocuted as I lead him to our bait aisle, moaning as his long fingers stop to caress a large vat of worms, which squirm as if wanting to be close to him. Gadzooks!

"Are any of these... dangerous? Could they burrow into human skin? Inflict searing but not deadly pain?"

"You might want to stay away from the hellgrammites. Their pincers can..."

"I'll take five pounds," he interrupts sexily.

I tremble some more as I scoop them into a bag - because of his burning cold eyes. Egads!

"Have you ever been dropped in the woods and hunted as prey?" he asks with his lips, which are too sensuously meaty to even look at!

"Nature's not my thing," I gasp lustily. "Or hunting. Or people. Or food. Most things aren't my thing."

"How refreshingly misanthropic you are," he whispers with deep caressiness. "Is there anything you do like?"

I start frothing at the mouth in trembliness as my Innermost Self pops up to order me to chillax, right before she starts humping his ankle. I slap her down the aisle. "I like books." Because it just can't be said enough how much I want to marry books and have their paper babies.

"What books?"

"Classic ones. From literature. And England because I'm classy."

His long index finger pokes several passing customers in the eye as he strokes it back and forth beneath his perfect, adonis-like chin and I contemplate my finger-philia. I must resist him!

"Please leave," I beg, clutching my virtue heroically.

"But I must have more implements... for fishing."

"Rubber wading pants," I bleat blushingly, thinking of how he'd have to wear them. Over his thingy!

"Indeed, Miss Ironclad. I must protect myself from all manner of… fluids... when fishing."

I rush to throw some at him and scurry to the counter. "Are you leaving yet?"

He pretends I didn't speak. "Is the article finished?"

"I don't know. I don't pay attention to what Blonde's doing when she's fully dressed," I say, so happy we aren't talking about sexy, sexy fishing anymore. "But I think she wishes it had a portrait."

Dusk's eyebrow crawls up his forehead. "Boudoir shot or just me holding a rifle while standing over a fresh carcass? Never mind. I'll do either." He scribbles his number on a twenty. "That's my cell phone number. Make sure you call it so I can start tracking you easier. Your locator chip is an early prototype."

Oh, golly! He's so giving and stuff. Innermost Self creeps up to lick his shoe. "Blonde would love that!" I smile and his eyes tell me that I am smiling deep into his lost, tortured, long-fingered soul!

"VAG!"

Beef leaps over the counter and begins subtly humping my leg like most boys do. _Boys_!

Dusk starts brandishing his fiberglass rod with malicious intent.

"Just a sec, Mr. Dusk." I turn to Beef, still humping me with friendly enthusiasm. Beef Gropehammer is Mr. Gropehammer's younger brother and I reflect how hum-drum and ordinary I find him and pretty much everyone who isn't Lutheran Dusk... or Blonde.

"Vag! Oh, my God, you're more beautiful than ever!"

"Oh, you!" Why are boys always drooling over me just because I'm beautiful and disdainful of them? Befuddlement! "I want you to meet Overlord Dusk." They slap each other back and forth in that manly way most guys do in my presence. "Lutheran Dusk owns this land and everyone on it," I tell Beef. "And Beef is Mr. Gropehammer's brother, who's home from California, where he goes to Yale for business something or other."

They stop slapping each other.

"Wowee wow! I suddenly like you. Can I serve you somehow?"

"Thanks. I prefer Vag's... service," Dusk says with a leer.

I decide to be baffled some more by all his innuendo that can't possibly be about S-E-X. Not with m-m-me!

Beef pants at me a few more times, then scampers off.

"I'm angry at how attractive men find you," Dusk announces with cold heat and eyes so smoky I can barely see anything around me. "Please finish my transaction, Vagina."

I'm hit with another bout of trembliness at him tongue-bathing my name. I ring up the things that are definitely for fishing and in no way a heavy-handed hint at anything else as he caresses some stray night crawlers on the counter with long-fingered deliciousness. I put them in a plastic implement of thing-carrying.

He wipes his nose with a fresh fifty and tosses it at me. "Call me about the portrait."

I am speechless at how deliciously commanding he is.

He spits on the ground. "And Vagina? I wouldn't have lojacked Miss Breastigan." He smirks, then marches out of the store with seductive conceit, which, of course, makes me blush, palpitate, convulse, and drool.

Heavens to Betsy! Could I possibly be _attracted _to this Playgirl model of a Trillionaire? Just maybe. Of course, it's hopeless! Sure, every male who's encountered me since puberty has tattooed my name all over his body, like friends do. But surely not him! I reopen the wounds on my lip... with biting. But I smile through the searing pain. Maybe I'll get to see him again! I call Blonde and wish... If only someone who could paint a portrait had just been in my home last night.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the fave, follow and review, **DragongirlM**.

_"D'aww! Vag is so mono dimensional and adorably violent! Seriously, you had me laughing straight through both chapters. xD"_

Oh, pshaw! I'm just desperate to do justice to the masterpiece that inspired this work!

Now on to the chapter, where Christian Grey Lutheran Dusk poses for a picture, then has coffee with Anastasia Steele Vagina Ironclad. This needed an entire chapter.

Only one person dies. :)

**Chapter Three**

Blonde is screeching in my ear as I call her from the live bait spawning room, orgasming verbally over Dusk posing for her. I'd be happy for her if I wasn't so angry at her gall in suggesting Dusk showed up at Gropehammer's to see me. My stomach heaves at the very idea. No! I won't even think of it for I am just as humble and practical as I am sweetly girlish and adorably clumsy.

"He was only visiting the Daytona Mountain food works factory," I insist.

"Oh, yeah," Blonde says, "he does tend to throw the spare money he doesn't use for kindling at Food Studies sometimes," she says as I wonder at how sexily generous he is, also at all the knowledge in Blonde's delectable girl-reporter head.

"So what about this painting?"

"I just don't know. Who do we know that could possibly paint?" Blonde muses. "And where would we paint him?"

"Maybe I can call him on his cell phone and ask. He did say it had to be synched with my tracking implant."

Blonde screeches some more. "You mean the most famously sexy trillionaire hermit ever gave you his cell number? He just might like you!"

"How dare you!" But the idea that he might like me just a teensy bit makes my scalp itch - seriously, _**scalp itch **_- for some unknown reason and sends me into frothing convulsions... when I come to, Blonde is still wondering just who could possibly paint him.

I suddenly remember that a painter was just in our lovenest last night. Because I'm smart. "Golly, this might sound crazy, but... How about Giotto?"

"Pfft! Fine! But you ask him," Kate snits as she always does about Giotto and his totally platonic worship of me. And, if you think this is going anywhere, you'd be dead wrong. "Then call Dusk about where!"

"Me? Don't be ridiculous!" He only gave me his cell phone number for me to stare at it endlessly and draw little hearts around it. Just like I've been doing.

"Well, I haven't even met him! You're the one he wants to despoil. Also, I am suddenly horribly jealous of you!" she yells before hanging up. I slap the phone around a little, imagining it's Blonde and decide, when I get home tonight, I am not even going to offer her an oil massage - not even if it looks like she might finally say yes.

Just then, Beef comes in to tell me I might have to work while I'm at work. "Fine," I sigh. Why is everyone picking on me today?

"Hey, wait... How do you know Lutheran Dusk?"

"I had to interview him for the paper even though I'm not a reporter. Because Blonde was sick and there was apparently not one other journalism student that could have done it."

"Yeah. Whatever. That's great. So wanna go out?"

Boys! Beef always asks me out. I always laugh in his face. It's a cute, little game we play. Anyway, Beef is nice and normal and - ick - so American, not at all like the fantasy men in my beloved books like... like... Innermost Self slides off my shoulder to point at Dusk's number and drool. I smack her into a pancake and laugh uproariously at Beef. "How sweetly repulsive you are!"

He just smiles. "One of these days, someone is going to cuff you to a radiator and pelt you with burning matches, Vag. I just hope it's me."

I foreshadowingly hope it's Lutheran Dusk, but like I said... Boys!

Later, I call Giotto and ask him to paint Dusk. "Mamma mia! I only do-a thee abstract-a hand-turkeys!" he whines in his very Mediterranean way.

"Please, Giotto," I try before Blonde takes the phone and happily berates him as I gaze in wonderment at her glowing, shiny hair and beautiful bossiness.

"Bob's your uncle," she exclaims with extreme American-ness when she hangs up on him. "Now call Dusk, you cheeky minx!"

I vomit discreetly in my mouth, but reach for his number, which I can almost see through all the hearts and stars drawn all over it.

It rings twice before he answers with that delightful sneer of his. "Dusk."

I pant into the receiver.

"Ah, Miss Ironclad! I was just recalibrating your locator chip," he says with warm stalkiness.

"Uhhhhhh..." I hyperventilate some more as I notice Blonde is gaping at me. "We want to paint you tomorrow... if it please your overlordship," I gasp as I hide under the coffee table.

I can nearly hear his attractively oily smirk squish through the receiver. "I've rented out the entire Super 8 Motel in Fort Lauderdale. You shall wait on me at sunrise!"

"As you command," I gush, giggling like the super sophisticated grown woman I am.

"Yes. You're learning quickly. Until tomorrow."

I hang up and burrow further under the table as I imagine his eyes glinting with attractive malice. Blonde is gaping at me.

"Vagina MarySue Ironclad! I think you like him! I've never seen you fetally regress before!"

"I do it all the time, you just don't see it," I scream. She seems flabbergasted because I just never go off my trolley over a bloke. Cor blimey!

I slap her and run off to sulk about her nerve in implying I might have a crush on the trillionaire overlord GQ model. I dream that night of dark cobwebbed caverns, large zucchinis, and trains going through tunnels and wake up seizing. I have to slap myself back to sleep several times.

The Super 8 is right on the snowy beach and was once savaged by MTV revelers in Mardi Gras 1998. History! I take Giotto and his friend Unimportant Character, U.C. for short, in my sled. Blonde takes her luxury Sno-Cat which we aren't in for some reason. Blonde flashes her breasts in exchange for beads and a free room, like you do in Fort Lauderdale, and ends up getting a luxury pool view suite with a chair and everything when she mentions OverLord Dusk. Also because she's so purty and bossy. I sigh with unrequited longing as she orders us around.

Then Lutheran Dusk arrives and gosh dang it to heck! I don't know if I said this before but Lutheran Dusk is blessed with good looks. For real! I drool as he strides in wearing pants that hang from his hips! And a shirt! A grizzled man with an eye-patch follows him in, then stands in front of the door wielding a large spear.

"Ah, Miss Ironclad, fate has conspired to cross our paths again."

I go a little nuts in the pants at his antiquated refinement. I pant loudly at him and introduce him to Blonde.

"Indeed. The infamous Miss Breastigan. Well met. Miss Ironclad said you were on deathwatch."

"I'm better now, Mr. Dusk," she says with calmness.

I resentfully worship Blonde's confidence that she isn't trembling at how unbelievably posh he is, but then I remember she grew up with money and normalcy and not on a compound - where the main currency was Metamucil and watching _Columbo _was a form of prayer.

I introduce him to Giotto, who has been sweetly humping my leg, but stops to glare at Dusk.

They slap each other as men do as the introductions conclude without me bothering to include Unimportant Character.

"Where do you want it?" he asks Giotto menacingly, but Blonde steps in to take over with voluptuous bossiness as Dusk's eyes molest me in the most intriguing way. Mine molest him right back pretty much the whole time as Giotto's fingers paint away. I squeal inwardly about how I get to actually look! At Dusk!

"It is-ah finish!" Giotto says after a few minutes.

"Good. Fine. Thanks, Mr. Dusk," Blonde says. She shakes his hand and Giotto slaps him lightly as they say their goodbyes, once again, not including Unimportant Character.

He snaps his fingers at me. "Miss Ironclad! Come!"

I trot after him as Blonde rolls her eyes and Giotto kicks U.C.

"Good day, peasants," Dusk says to them with delicious dismissiveness as he ushers me outside.

Gee willikers! Whatever could this mean?

Sir Eye-Patch follows us, but Dusk waves him away. "I'll summon you later, Hawkeye," he says and the man grunts and marches away. "You will join me for coffee."

My stomach gurgles its way into my trachea. Lutheran Dusk wants to drink beverages with me? Inconceivable! I break out in red blotches as I do over most things, but mumble an answer. "We all took my sled here," I say, quaking like a newborn colt - as grown women do at the prospect of a date.

"HAWKEYE," he yells as I tremble some more. The man comes back to us. "My head guard, Hawkeye, will drive them and their trifling things." He snaps his fingers at the man. "You will take the painter, Miss Breastigan and the unnamed peasant home."

"Yes, Sir."

"Now I have taken care of your lowly friends, you will join me."

I frown at him because I am as independent and womanly as I am trembly and preteen. "No need. I will pointlessly change your plans and force my friend to take my run-down sled for some reason. Just a sec."

Dusk smiles with oily satisfaction. Jumpin Jehosophat!

Blonde looks gorgeously concerned when I ask her about the pointless switch while Giotto kicks things. "Vag, he's a handsome man with an air of danger and you're a blushing virgin. These kinds of relationships are just never documented!"

"Piffle," I say. "I'll be home soon." I come out, gape at Dusk some more because - just so everyone knows - he's good looking. "Coffee. Yes," I stammer as irregular blood flow causes my skin to redden. I hate coffee just like I hate pretty much everything that is not books and tea, but here I am.

"How long have you known Blonde Breastigan?" he asks in a voice of as warm and soft as a warm, soft thing.

"We met when she plucked me from captivity and brought me to Daytona Mountain University. I've been worshipping her ever since… but platonically," I add quickly.

We move down the snowy steps, past a couple macking. I, of course, blush and giggle because I am twelve years old. Even Dusk looks amused. People kissing! The idea!

Dusk takes my hand and I immediately shudder with more blushiness. No one has ever, ever, ever held my hand before. Not even my mother and Hick. In fact, Hick used to make me wear a barbed wire jumpsuit when we lived in the compound to keep me thoroughly untouched by humans.

We walk to a cafe where Dusk lets go of my hand and shoves me in. "I'll get your coffee."

"But I want tea. English tea because I'm literary. I don't like coffee. Or food." I retch slightly at the idea of horrible, disgusting food.

He smiles, maybe at how endearingly discerning my taste buds are. "Tea, then. Honey?"

I stupidly imagine he's calling me honey before Innermost Self pops out of my purse to kick me for dreaming so high. "No." I prefer no flavoring or enjoyment of my beverages because I don't deserve such things.

I ogle him as he waits for our drinks, him with his hair and his shoulders and unnaturally elongated fingers and pants that, just so you know, hang from hips rather than his stomach the way the Elders would wear them where I grew up, especially at ceremonial _Matlock _hour. I absently poke at Innermost Self at how powerfully poised he is compared to horrifyingly unworthy me, whose stumbling has killed ninety-seven people this year alone.

"I simply must get into your deeply mysterious mind," Dusk says with a compelling kick to a passing customer as he approaches with a tray.

"I like tea. And books."

"Yes. We've established how interesting that makes you. So are you dating what's his name?"

"Who?" Because there is no man in the world other than Lutheran Dusk!

"The painter."

"Oh, Giotto. Of course not," I sneer. "What makes you think I'd date someone foreign?" I wonder with blushing racism.

"You did seem quite tolerant of him humping your leg."

"Well, I have to be or I would have no male friends." I sigh. "No. I just tell him how wonderful he is and how much I need him, let him think there could be the possibility of more between us, then laugh in his face. Like with brothers!" I'd never had a brother, but I figure that's how it goes. I gape at his long fingers a little more as he toys with his food. I suppose I must like Dusk just a little if I can tolerate the fact that he – ulp! - eats.

"And what about that creature at your tackle shack?"

"Oh, no. Beef's like a brother, too."

"You're so refreshingly skittish and fearful around men. It's a quality all women should have."

Jeepers, he's incisive about my extremely well-hidden blushiness. "I am cowed by you," I say - and with a blush.

"As well you should be. I'm horribly rich. Your blotchy, red face pleases me. Don't you dare look away from me," he snaps charmingly.

"I'm private."

"I'm powerful."

"Can I call you Lutheran?"

"No." He smirks. "Do you have any siblings that would come looking for you should you disappear?"

"No."

"Excellent. And are your parents the kind that would protest you being cut off from them?"

It's so perplexing, how he wants to know about dull, boring, not-fit-to-live me and my similarly afflicted family. "My mom, who has no name, lives with the latest in a string of husbands, who does have a name, Brick."

"Your father?"

"Dead," I say, only just now remembering that. It's a very forgettable detail and will have no impact whatsoever on anything. I lovingly bash my silly wench of a mother some more, then tell him about Hick, who is a fisherman, who likes whittling... which is totally different from a carpenter veteran bowling soccer enthusiast... which is totally different from a policeman and hunting enthusiast. "I lived with him in an anti-technology senior living cul... er... community while my mom married every man she met. And no. I don't secretly hate her... much. What about your family, Mr. Nosey-pants?"

"They live in Tallahassee," he snips. "My father is a powerful businessman like myself. My mother does whatever women do."

I marvel that he was adopted and went on to become a dreamy, dishy, gorgeously successful man, unlike most adopted freakshows. Oh, the beauty of him! "What about your brother and sister?"

"Lump is a weight lifter and my sissie is the most successful fry cook in all of New Jersey. And no. I will not tell you her name!"

Oh, dear! My horribly inappropriate questions about his family must be making him uncomfortable. I decide to show him all the consideration he wouldn't show me and stop prying. "I just love New Jersey," I mumble.

"You've been there?"

"No. But I hear it has the biggest hair you'll ever see. But I've never traveled outside Florida. First because it was forbidden, then I just got used to it."

"Do you want to go?"

"Maybe to Jersey, but I'd really love to see England!" I stand, impassioned. "England! The home of BOOKS! England! The home of TEA! If I were an author, by golly, I'd be an ENGLISH one." I shrug and sit down. "Then I'd write a book set in America, even though I know nothing of the place or the lingo. It'll probably be a best-seller. Because Americans will buy anything." I suddenly remember that I'm a student. "I'd better go study my beloved books."

"Ah, yes. I forgot how educated you are. I'll walk you to Miss Breastigan's vehicle." He stands and whistles. "Here, girl!"

I trot after him, beguiled by his commands.

"Do you always wear… clothes?"

"Uh... Yes." I punch myself as we walk in silence, just knowing that answer wasn't fascinating enough! "Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask, then slap myself across the face for being so stupid as to ask.

"I rarely associate with lower beings, thank you."

I try to ponder his meaning, then am attacked with a fit of stumbling, careening into a passing snowboarder. He falls headfirst into a fire hydrant, but Dusk grabs me before I hit it. I fall against his chest and breathe in his manscent as the snowboarder bleeds and twitches below us. Heavens to Betsy!

"You horrible clod," he says tenderly, stroking my face - with his fingers. If we were stuck on a deserted island and I just had to resort to cannibalism, I would eat his fingers for days! Maybe his meaty lips, too. I stare at them and feel as if cobwebs are slipping from my ladybits. For the first time ever, seriously ever, in my life, not kidding, I want someone to kiss me!

I never have been. That barbed wire jumpsuit had a hood, you know.

**To be continued...**


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